On the Road
by Astrid
Summary: Post RENT fic. After the success of his latest film, Mark is asked to produce a documentary about his estranged roommates successful band. Complete! Finally! Reviews wanted and needed.
1. You Needed Me

It took me all of an hour to read the outline. 

The necessities were simple. Well, they should have been simple. Prisoner Productions wanted to produce a documentary about a month on the road with a band. But not just any band, something crazy, something interesting, something wild. Where could I find that? I wasn't sure just yet, but I was sure that I couldn't turn this down. This was the first thing that had been HANDED to me. I had been asked to do this. I was their first choice.

This inflated my ego just a tad. My last film hadn't been exactly a box office smash, but it sure as hell didn't flop. I finally had the money to move out of my shitty loft and into a rather nice apartment. I bought furniture, I bought a car, I got cable...hell I could put food in my fridge every week. I started to actually sit down and write again. Having the money from Sally Falling jumpstarted my bank account, and my muse.  
Now I was being asked to do a documentary again. I hadn't produced a documentary since Today 4U: Proof Positive, and I wasn't sure I was ready for the emotional strain filming real life was going to put on me again. But at least this time it wouldn't be such a personalized piece of work. All I had to do was go on the road with a band for a month and film their every waking moment. 

Where the hell was I going to find a band? The outline of the documentary had sent me a list of bands that were interested in the publicity, so I pulled it out and sat at my desk, propping my feet up on it and flipping through.

_Madonna's Whore_. Yeah, they sounded like real winners. _Ringo._ Hmmm, a band filled with bad drummers. _Blank Serpent._ A modernized name for White Snake. Real creative. I sighed, leafing through page after page of bad band names and their managements phone numbers. There was no way I could make a decent documentary with these drunken fools. This was obviously not a happy realization. Where was I going to find a band that was legitimate about their music and were a group of interesting people? I pulled my feet off of the table with a huff of anger, and clumsily knocked over a stack of magazines. Groaning, I leaned over to pick up the ones that sat sprawled on my study floor. Turning the top one over, an article caught my eye.

**__**

Well Hungarians make a sensational splash at CBGB's reunion, despite new fame.

I had known about my former roommates success with his band for years now. He had moved to LA right after the release of Today 4U, and he had shown up to the premiere of Sally Falling. I would get the occasional phone call and the traditional cards on holidays and birthdays. But the truth was, I hadn't seen Roger Davis in two years.

No. There was no way he'd want to do this, and there was no way I'd escape unscathed. I quickly closed the article, but not before I saw the last line written.

**The Well Hungarians will be touring from March 1 to May 31. Check your local arena for show dates.**

No. No, I wasn't going to call Roger. There was no way this idea would fly, there was no way I could convince him to let me do this. I let out a heavy sigh. Back to the drawing board it was. Back to my original idea of auditioning bands.

Then why was my hand reaching for the phone? Why was I dialing Roger's cell phone number? Why was I falling into this trap? I let out another sigh, more to prepare myself for Roger's decline than out of misery as it sounded. 

"This better be an emergency." A gruff, tired voice quipped. I inwardly groaned. Already off to a bad start.

"Roger? It's Mark..." I said, trying to sound alert and excited to hear from him. Which I was, of course, but my voice was too nervous to portray it. I leaned back in my chair and ran a hand through my sandy curls, pushing them from behind my glasses.

"Marcus!" The voice immediately cheered up, using the full name that wasn't really mine, but familiar anyway. "How goes it, brother? It's been ages...but I guess seven in the morning is better than never..." he laughed that familiar friendly chuckle that I had been certain was reserved for my company alone.

"I'm sorry...I forget that you know, you're in a different time zone and all, should I call back later?" I begged he would say yes, because then I could conveniently forget to and this would resolve itself.

"Nah, Pete's going to be in here in five minutes yelling at me to get ready. I have a flight back to New York at ten...I was going to call you! I'm gonna be in town for a few days!" He said, newly reminded. I winced. I was doomed.

"Well that's great!" I said gritting my teeth. "Because I need to talk to you..." 

"About?" he replied, obviously shifting position from the bustle of sound on the other end. "Something wrong?"

"No, no nothing's wrong." I assured him, and myself. "I just needed to ask you some questions for a new...project I'm working on." A half-truth. Better than a lie, right?

"Sounds interesting...I'm getting in at..." A pause. He was checking a clock or watch or something. "I'll get in the city at six, your time. How about dinner at the Life at eight? I miss that old place..." A hint of nostalgia wavered in his voice. I leaned forward. 

"Yeah. Sounds like a great idea..." I said, adjusting my glasses out of habit. "You'll be settled in your hotel by then?" 

"Settled in? Mark, we just throw the suitcases on the floor and go to bed." he laughed again. This time I laughed with him. 

"Alright then...I'll see you at the Life at eight. And I'll even give you a half an hour's grace time." I teased, knowing Roger's punctuality impairment.

"Sounds good, my brother. I'll talk to you then..." 

I hung up with the sinking feeling that I was in over my head.

*** 

I tapped the side of my glass of water at the Life Cafe. 8:20. Typical Roger. He had ten more minutes, and to pass the time I pulled out a pen and started scribbling on the napkins. I bet the waiters hate that. 

The flurry of movement as the door opened caught my attention, and I looked up to see my guest of honor standing in the door way. All eyes in the cafe went to him. Some murmurs from high schoolers went up throughout the room. They knew who he was. His trademark leather jacket was unzipped and his Beatles t-shirt looked like it hadn't been washed in days. Again, typical Roger. The boy could live in a Laundromat and never get his laundry done. His hair looked surprisingly un-dyed. It was his normal shade of dirty blonde, and most of it hung in his cobalt eyes, which searched the cafe menacingly. He didn't see me, so I decided to gain myself some attention. I let out a sharp whistle.

The eyes that were on Roger now shifted to me, and he finally spotted me, sitting at a booth in the back. I stood as he approached the table out of courtesy, not expecting the bear hug he laid on me. Nonetheless, I hugged my best friend back and took my seat, watching as the people in the cafe stared annoyingly. 

"So how's life treating you?" he asked, grinning widely. I smiled and shrugged.

"Same as usual..." I answered, hoping he understood that "same as usual" meant no dates, no social life and no work. "Anything interesting going on with your band?"

"Just our new tour..." he said, his face lit with obvious excitement. After at least a half an hour of catching up (I told him about Sally Falling's success, he told me about his new album, and his new groupies) he remembered I had asked him here to talk about something. I was hoping his faulty memory would kick in, but no such luck.

"So what's up? You wanted to ask me some questions?" he asked, taking a huge swig of the beer he ordered. I silently cursed. 

"Yeah...um...I got an offer to produce another documentary..." 

"COOL!" He shouted with a wide smile. "What on?"

I inhaled. "It's supposed to be a month spent on tour with a band..."

"No." Roger quickly quipped. "No way, you can't come on tour with us, I will not expose you to the shit that goes on in that tour bus..." he leaned back, as if to finalize it.

And I found myself begging. I didn't want to go on tour with them, did I? No. I wasn't anywhere near ready for the life of sex, drugs and rock and roll. That wasn't my scene. But I was making a damn good argument for it.

"Come on, Roger, it's only a month and it'll be amazing publicity for your band. I need this job, and I can't do it without your help. The money from my last film is only going to last for so long...please, Roger I can't do this without your help..." I hoped my pitiful whine was getting through to him like it had in the past. It didn't look it. So I decided to add the stinger.

"And besides. I need to get laid."

Roger found this the most hilarious thing he had heard all week and began laughing like a drunken fool.

"Alright, alright. I'll talk to the other guys about it and call you tomorrow..." he smiled. I grinned back with a lopsided friendly smile, and agreed that I'd call him tomorrow to find out if I was going to go on this...absurd journey.

***

I was packing my bags Friday night, and we boarded the tour bus Saturday morning. Roger had introduced me to all of his bandmates. There was Luke, the bass player who donned a shocking head of blue hair and a goofy attitude that I was sure Roger was fond of. Luke was immediately warm and welcoming to me...I wonder if it was because I was holding a camera.

The next one I met was Sal. He was the drummer, and I think it was pretty obvious. His brains must have been rattled around too much from all that pounding. He was tall, with short cropped, black as night hair and his hands always in his pockets. I made a note to stay away from him.

Then there was Noah, the keyboardist. He seemed like he didn't really fit in with the rest of the group. When we met he was sitting complacently on the small couch, staring out of a window, not socializing with Roger, Luke and Sal...just watching as the cars rolled past us in the parking lot. I knew I was going to get along with Noah.

The bus was huge, a front sitting area with a couch and table, a hall of bunks (a free one for me, which I thought was pretty cool) and a back TV and radio area. Our bags were stuffed in the cargo space underneath and I made sure to bring everything on board that I needed for the drive to New Jersey. Toothbrush, blankets, notebooks, film, a book in case I get bored. I was set to go.

Until it was performance time, that is. Our first stop was CBGB's. I had been to this place many times before...it was a frequent haunt of Roger's and mine back before he had left for LA. But now it was different. Something about the way that the lights looked from backstage instead of from the audience. I had been dubbed the official "equipment-carrier" while the rest of the band decided to haul amps and plug in the already pre-set material onstage. I opened the back of the bus as I had seen Roger do before and my eyes fell upon the pile of guitar cases and drum set pieces, keyboards and spare amps. 

I lugged in Luke's clean black bass first and he grinned at me appreciatively as I set it down before him. My next chore was to help Sal set up the drums, and I found it odd how quickly it came back to me. I remembered setting up Dave's old drum set back in the loft, back when the Well Hungarians were a no name underground band barely scraping by on 20 dollars a performance.

After preparing Noah's keyboard and amp, I trodded back to the bus, spying one last item in the back.

Roger's guitar.

It was littered with stickers, most I remembered, some new ones. There was the "Hello, My Name Is: Loretta" That was the day we finally named his guitar. He had been wracking his brain for an idea for a name and as soon as I handed him the spare stack of ID stickers that I had found in my desk drawer he just scrawled down Loretta and slapped it on the case. And that was the name.

The other stickers were mostly band advertisements, some of his friends, some famous ones, some were just pieces of paper taped to the stiff black case. I knew that what I was doing next was highly illegal in Roger's law.

With a careful glance over my shoulder, I flicked open the metal latches and lifted the huge case. I saw her. The pearl colored, Fender six string that Roger held closer to his heart than family. All of his earthly possessions-anything that meant anything to him-were kept in that case. Tucked in the red felt were pictures of his brothers and his mother, papers, phone numbers...

But they weren't what grabbed my attention. 

After a moment of sifting through the case, I opened the small compartment where he kept his picks and spare strings. Inside lay four or five pictures. Of he and I. 

The one that lay on top was a candid, probably taken by Collins or someone, of us at the Life Cafe. Roger stood next to a table pointing at me and laughing about something, which, from the expression on my face, I found either completely hilarious or completely disgusting. The next picture was another candid of us the day we moved into the loft. I flipped through them and finally came to the last picture of the bunch.

We sat on the steps of the crumbling loft, Roger had me in a tight headlock and I was grinning stupidly at the camera. We were happy. We were laughing. 

It was the day he left for LA.

"What are you doing?" came the bass voice from behind me. I tossed the pictures in the case and slammed the lid shut, whirling around to come face to face with Roger.

"Nothing..." I lied in my strong tenor, hoping it didn't sound as obvious to him as it did to me.

"You were touching my stuff..." he said, putting an arm past me and snatching up his guitar.

"I was just...fixing it. I picked it up and something rattled around inside..." Much more convincing. Quick thinking, Cohen.

"You were touching. My. Stuff." He accentuated it in a way that made me want to cringe. He wasn't happy. And Roger Davis' temper was a force to be reckoned with. I didn't reply, didn't protest. He continued for me.

"Just remember whose time you're on here, Mark. Remember that if you want this documentary done..." he paused, unsure how to finish and then began again. "You're not alone in your little film world anymore. This film is going to require you to interact with people. I know it's a foreign concept to you, but maybe we can work on it..." he said dryly, turning heel and stomping back into the club. 

I was shocked. Stunned. How DARE he accuse me of...

No. I wasn't going to get mad...I wasn't going to freak out, I was just going to get in there, film some performance footage, film some fan reactions and get the hell out of there with as little conversation as possible.

I clomped back inside, my worn Vans barely making a noise in comparison to the warming up of Roger and his band mates. I lifted up my camera, focusing in on Noah, pan left to Luke...

"Welcome everybody!" I heard Roger shout from onstage. He plucked out a few notes and the crowd roared in response. "My name's Roger Davis and we're the Well Hungarians..." Another cheer. "On bass, we have Luke Potter!" Another cheer. "On keyboards, Noah Fairway!" I was growing bored with the cheering. "And on drums, Sal Edwards!" 

I zoomed in on each member, and then found myself filming Roger again as he started their first song, "Follow". The crowd around me began jumping in response and I began to assume that this wasn't the best place to be to get footage. I had set up my tripod backstage, so I began to shuffle my way over. I'd have to get action shots at some other venue. Tonight would have to be still. 

Placing my camera on the tripod, I decided to get back into the crowd. I wanted to watch the show, get ideas for good songs to film for, figure out who the groupies were to talk to, and who the groupies were to stay away from. As soon as I got into the masses again, I felt someone try to pull on the hem of my gray t-shirt. I backed away and towards a calmer crowd. 

"Hey!" Shouted a rather intoxicated sounding voice. I looked up. "Yeah you!" A giggle. Oh no. My eyes fell upon a rather attractive blonde who was slinking up to me in a way that she thought would look incredibly sexy. It looked foolish and drunk. She slid up beside me and grinned. "Can I buy you a drink?" 

"I don't drink..." I lied. I just wanted to get her away from me. Far away. She pouted her heavily painted lips and put her hand on my arm. 

"Oh come on, are you here alone?" Her voice sounded like one of those phone-sex operators from Girl 6 or something. I shook my head no.

"I'm with the band." I answered. A line that I had always wanted to slip to a dame, but never in a situation like this. I never thought I'd be telling someone I was with the band to get AWAY from them.

"You're in the band?"

"No, I'm _with_ the band..."

"A roadie?" 

"You could say that..." I mumbled, my eyes back on the stage. She grinned. 

"I love these guys...this is the fifth time I've seen them..." So THAT was it. At first she was just looking for something to do, but now she had a mission. Sleep with the "roadie" to get to the band. Clever plot, but I wasn't falling for it. 

"Do you know them personally?" She persisted, breaking my silence. I gritted my teeth before replying. 

"Sort of...I'm new."

"What's your name?" Why wouldn't she leave me alone!? I racked my brain for some sort of excuse, some reason to slip backstage. But all I came up with was...

"Mark." Good job, Cohen. Now she has something to address you with.

****

"I'm Amy." She grinned, her hand still gripping her beer. I was physically repulsed by this woman and all I wanted to do was run away. 

"So...you single? Being on the road must be really trying on a relationship..." 

"Actually, I have a girlfriend..." Okay, so it wasn't the FULL truth. Having a crush on someone who sort-of-kind-of-high-school-giggling-flirting-likes-you-back isn't exactly a relationship, but hell, it was close enough for me. Her face fell. 

"That's a shame..." she purred. I inwardly screamed that it was a bloody miracle. "I was hoping to be seeing a lot more of you..." 

I heard the crowd roar as the song ended. "Sorry, that's my cue..." I grinned at her. "See you around..." And with a flash I was backstage, sitting Indian style by my beloved camera.

***

A week passed and the altercation between Roger and I faded. We never addressed it, never spoke of it until the morning after the first Boston show. Only Roger and I had returned to the bus that night, the rest of the band deciding to get a room at some hotel. I woke to the sounds of Roger coughing. My eyes fluttered open, I pulled back the long curtain and crawled out of the bunk I was sleeping in. Roger stood in the kitchen area, bracing himself against the counter. He was eerily pale and his whole demeanor seemed limp and weak. I stood, pushing my glasses on my face and keeping a respective distance. He began coughing again.

"Have you been taking your AZT?" I asked in a tone that I knew Roger recognized. He let out a dry chortle and sat back on the booth at the small table. 

"Things don't change with you, do they, Mark..." he barked slowly, his gruff voice raspy and dry. I started to fix myself tea and sat on the counter that Roger had been gripping just moments before. 

"Things don't change with you, either, Roger." I said, a tone of bravery in my voice that partially scared me and partially fueled me to continue. I knew he had to have been slipping on his dosage. That was the only reason he could be this...sickly.

"No...I mean you don't change." he answered. "You still feel you have this obligation to mother me." He leaned back in his seat. "Well don't. Because I don't need it. I never needed it."

I ran an angry hand through my hair. "Never needed it?" I stuttered. "You needed me to remind you to breathe, Roger. You wouldn't have taken your medication if it weren't for my constant reminders. You wouldn't have eaten. You would have self destructed if I hadn't been on your back 24 hours a day..." My long fingers had closed over the edge of the counter, my tendons taut and my wrists locked.

"What do you want, a fucking medal?" He shot back, weak, but not as weak as he looked. "It's not like you had much else to do."

I didn't think words could fuel such anger in one person. Especially me. I knew how to block out Roger's banter, I knew how to weave away from his temper and avoid conflict. Why wasn't I utilizing my skill at all? Why was I fighting with him?

"I _cared_ about you, that's why I did it! Do you know how many times I just wanted to go away and leave you to your own devices? How many times I wanted to give up on you because you were too damn stubborn for your own good? How many times I wanted to get a life that didn't revolve around your AZT schedule and when you needed meals and sleep?"

"No one asked you to be my personal nurse, Mark." 

"What was I supposed to do, Roger, you were dying!" My voice rose an octave and I looked down at the floor. 

"I _am_dying, Mark. We're all dying, I'm just doing it faster than the rest." He glared at me, a harsh reminder.

"Whatever. All I'm saying is that without me you wouldn't have made it to Christmas. You needed me." My voice was relatively calm again.

"I never needed anyone." He said, like a child defiantly assuring a parent that he can cross the street by himself. I blinked.

"Right, like you never _needed _ heroin?" I shot back insensitively. "You needed me! That night at CBGB's...when I saw those pictures and you freaked out...those pictures were of how you _needed _me. That's why you got angry. Big rock star Roger can't be seen depending on a friend."

"Fuck you, Mark, I never depended on you!" He stood, I stood in response. He was a good head taller than me, a good 20 pounds heavier. He could level me with one shot, sick or healthy.

"Like hell you didn't!" I yelled back, clenching my fists. "You leaned on me for everything. Who asked me to move in? Who actually left the house to get food and your medicine? Who was the one to..."

"Fuck you..." he muttered. 

"Yeah, fuck _me_, Roger. Because I was the one who left his best friend high and dry for three guys he barely knew." I could feel the angry tightening in my chest again. "I didn't bail on the guy who held me up for half a year of fevers and cravings and dizzy spells. I didn't leave my sick girlfriend..."

"Stop. Stop right there..." he warned. But I stupidly persisted.

"I didn't leave my girlfriend to die in the city so I could go score a record deal!" Before I knew it I was against the counter, my left jaw throbbing with unbearable pain. I looked up at Roger, whose dark eyes were furious.

"Talk about Mimi again. I _want_ you to." He invited. I shrank away from him.

"You're angry because I'm right." I hissed, holding my face as if it would fall off when I let go. 

"And you're angry because you're alone. Want to know why you're alone? Because no one wants a pretentious, insecure, diminutive little twerp to be up their ass for every breathing moment." And with that he stormed out, slamming the bus door.


	2. You Can't Pretend

I sat poised with my camera, aiming it straight at Luke, calm, collected, and ready to do some actual work. It had been days since Roger and I last spoke...if you could call what we did "speaking". My jaw had ached for awhile, but it was fading, and I was able to chew without pain again. But the fact of the matter was that I wasn't thinking about getting any information from Luke. I was concerned with where Roger was. What he was doing. How angry he was.

"Hey...we gonna do this or what?" Luke's voice rang in my ears for a moment before I responded.

"Oh...yeah..." I leaned back on the small counter, the bus shaking my balance (and my camera, dammit) for a moment. Regaining composure, I got a shot of the road whizzing past Luke as I spoke.

"So...how did you get into this?" I asked, zooming in for a tighter shot. Luke's eyes wandered around and settled on the camera. I waved my hand, motioning for him not to look directly into the lens. That wasn't the shot I wanted.

"Into music? Into the band?" He asked, looking casually at my wiggling fingers.

"Either or...both if you have the time..." He had the time, we had an hour till Providence. He shrugged and leaned back. 

"Been playing bass all my life...since I was little. Was in a few bands back in Berkley before I moved to LA. Stompers, The Batterleys...never heard of them, have you..." He laughed as I shook my head no. "Didn't think so...well, those were the guys I started with." 

My attention faded and I found myself droning out a few empty questions with very little feeling. My focus is on the eerie twanging I hear from the hall of bunks. Roger is in his bunk (above mine) and tuning his guitar with precision. Why am I acting like I'm so afraid of him?

He stirs, walking out of the hall, and past me with an evil glare.

That's why, you chicken shit. I sighed, leaning against the counter again. "Okay..." I said, flicking off my camera. "Thanks for your time..." I watched as Roger locked himself in the back room. It made me fume how calm he was about this all.

"Mark...is something wrong?" Luke asked, looking at me as though I had grown a third eye. 

"No...what made you think that?" I asked defensively, sitting on the small padded bench. 

"Because you just cut me off in the middle of my answer to your question." He said flatly. I gritted my teeth. I'm such an idiot sometimes...

"Oh...sorry..." I answered. 

"Did you and Roger get into a brawl or something?" Luke leaned back, taking a sip of the coffee that sat in front of him.

"A brawl? Like took out our switchblades and had a rumble?" I asked. "What is this, Grease?"

"No, I mean, like a fight." He answered, giving me another look.

"Sort of." I lied. There was no 'sort of' with this fight. It was a fight. A big one. A painful one.

"Over what?" Gee, this kid was inquisitive. 

"Old...unresolved things..." I evaded answering this as best I could manage. Luke saw right through me.

"His old girlfriend, right? Or how he left all his old friends? I've heard them all. I like to call them Roger's Soap Opera Stories." He rolled his eyes. That annoyed me slightly and I grumbled something incoherent. 

"A lot of things..." I sighed, pushing at my glasses and rewinding the film in my camera.

"Maybe you should...you know, resolve it with him. You have two more weeks on the road with him, you can't go around giving each other death glares and the cold shoulder. Trust me, I've tried. You can't live with people you don't trust." Luke lectured.

"I trust him." I insisted childishly.

"Then talk to him, moron..." He teased. I rolled my eyes.

"It isn't that easy with Roger." I informed. This guy hadn't known Roger as long as I had. I knew more about him...

"Roger's done a lot of changing since he left New York, Mark. You can't deny that. You can't pretend that he's the same, weak kid you knew."

Ouch.

"You can't act like he doesn't know what he's doing without your guidance. Because he does. He's managed for years now."

Double ouch. I sighed heavily and stood. 

"Well..." I paused. I didn't have a decent retort, and anything I said would make me sound like a bumbling moron. Not a big change from the norm, but I wouldn't want to risk saying something _more _moronic than the shit that usually comes out of my mouth.

"Well?" Luke asked, looking up at me expectantly. I growled, putting my camera down and marching into the hall, my eyes searching for Roger.


	3. You Never Know

****

Three: You Never Know

My search for Roger yielded nothing. The door to the back room was locked, and no matter how loud I knocked on it, he always seemed to turn the music he was blasting back there up a notch louder. I sighed, deciding to nap on the rest of our journey to Providence. 

As soon as we got there, Sal made it clear to me that Roger didn't want me at the show that night. I suppose they had some sort of conversation that I was out of earshot of, and Roger had made me out to be the bad guy. Fine. I told Sal that I had enough shots of the band anyway, from the New York and Boston shows, and as long as I could get a full reel of the final New Jersey show that all I'd need were single shots and interviews with the band. He assured me that he'd make Roger allow me to go to that one, and I nodded, picking up my camera and marching out onto the Providence streets.

Good old Providence. I had spent three years in this city when I went to Brown, and I knew it like the back of my hand. Of course some new places had sprung up, but I still knew what streets led where and what places were safe. 

I ate dinner at some place called "Fire and Ice". It wasn't half bad and they actually cook the food right in front of you. It took a good chunk out of my wallet, though. I sighed, chalking it up as a gift to myself after that horrid display a few days ago, which, by the way, was still making me miserable.

I walked around for awhile, window shopping, getting shots of the rather eccentric people that roamed the streets, filming a few cars, and I actually got a really good shot of a minor accident, as morbid as it sounds. No one was hurt, but hey, it works well for slow-motion.

By the time I wandered back to the bus it was midnight, and the show was bound to be over. As soon as I reached the parking lot where the bus had made claim, I could hear the clamor. They had just done a show, of course they were riled up and excited. Well, maybe more than excited. I climbed into the bus to see probably one of the most scary scenes of my adult life.

Not only were the band members occupying the huge bus, but at least half a dozen groupies were there too. Hanging on Luke, moving in on Sal...and practically consuming Roger through phagocytosis. Poor Noah sat in the little kitchenette, playing solitaire while the rest of the band played around with the television and stereo in the back room.

"Good night?" I asked, sitting down beside him.

"We sold out..." He said in his shy, young voice, a little grin escaping. "500 seats."

"Wow...pretty cool..." I said, not really as excited as I wanted to be for them. Noah looked up at me, his brown eyes gleaming with caution.

"Wanna do me a favor?" He asked, leaning forward. 

"I guess..." I raised my eyebrow, wary of what he might ask me to do.

"Wanna go supervise their little party? I would do it myself, but frankly, it creeps the hell out of me."

Right, because I'm exposed to sex and alcohol everyday.

Nonetheless I found myself striding to the back room and opening the door. I swear, I could smell the testosterone, and it made me woozy...or maybe the alcohol was in the air.

"MARK!" cried Luke's voice and a cheer went through the little crowd. I closed the door behind me. 

"Are you guys breaking stuff?" I asked, trying to make light of the situation. Luke let out a drunken laugh. God, sometimes I really, really can't stand alcohol. 

"Nah, just hanging out...Mark, you should meet Sarah, she's really cool." he motioned to a brunette sitting beside Roger. I shook my head in decline. 

"Thanks but no thanks..." I said, backing away and into a chair. "I'm just here to make sure none of you die, or operate heavy machinery." Another roar of laughter. 

The small party raged on, and I sat back and observed, finally deciding to get my camera and tape some of these odd happenings. Before I knew it, Roger was approaching me and insisting I shut it off.

"Cut it out, Mark, we're just having a good time..." He grinned stupidly. I knew Roger was usually a happy drunk, but when you got him mad...

I clicked off the camera and sat back down.

"Mark, I have to tell you something..." He slurred, sitting beside me as Sal wandered off, a girl on each arm. I didn't want to know what he had planned. I turned to Roger.

"What is it..." I asked, expecting another upbraiding for my antics the other day.

"You..." He began, pausing for a moment. "...are my best friend. Ever..." 

"Roger..." I protested, not in the mood for a heart to heart.

"No, no no..." He insisted, swatting at the bothersome tugs on the arm by a pretty blonde. "You're my best friend, and I was a straight up punk to you the other day...I was a jerk."

Wait a minute. Was Roger apologizing? It may have been a drunk apology but drunk was better than nothing. I let him continue. 

"I was just flat out mean. And I really shouldn't have hit you. You don't bruise well." He laughed for a moment and then continued. "And I just want to say, that...I've had a few drinks now, and I see the error of my ways." Why was Roger more articulate when intoxicated? Everything was always backwards with him. "I'm sorry, Mark. I was a jerk."

"Yes, I believe we established that." I teased. "Roger, you're crocked, why don't you go to bed and we'll talk about this in the morning."

"I am NOT crocked." 

"Roger...you're sloshed out of your tree...I've seen you like this many a time, and I think I can tell. I'm your best friend, remember?" I teased more. This was just too easy.

"Oh...well...a nap does sound nice." He conceded, standing up and letting me guide him to his bunk. "Just make sure everyone gets home, or...out of here at least..." He climbed in awkwardly and I did all I could to keep from laughing. I pulled his blankets over him and he snuggled in like a 5-year old.

"Goodnight, Roger." I said, sighing. 

"I don't get a good night kiss?" He teased, making kissy faces at me. 

"You're lucky I don't give you a good night smack." I threatened. "Now...go to sleep so you can sober up by tomorrow night."

"Goodnight Maaaaark..." He giggled, letting my name drawl like some sort of twisted chant.

I prayed he'd remember our reconciliation in the morning.


	4. You'll Make It On Your Own

__

(A/N: Ah, the last chapter. I'm sad to see this story go, actually. I hope you all enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it...)

****

Four: You'll Make It On Your Own

The day of the New Jersey show was here. My month with the Well Hungarians had been well worth my while, despite the arguments, the hours of partying, and the strain that it put on the already thin friendship that Roger and I held onto. I wanted to stay with them, feeling like I could film them forever, and talk to them forever, and almost...almost be one of them, but I was hopping the train tomorrow morning back to New York while they headed west. 

But I missed my apartment. I missed my couch and my cable TV, and my prospective girlfriend and I even missed my mother's voice on my answering machine. In some corner of my mind I would relish the moment I got on that train, no matter how much I wanted to stay with these fun-loving guys.

I stood in the crowd, my camera placed strategically onstage, capturing every moment on film. Looking down at my attire, I realized that the guys had even influenced that. My t-shirt read "Vinyl Will Never Die", and I was actually wearing a pair of loose fitting khakis. I knew that as soon as I got home, these clothes would be shoved into a closet and never seen again, but I didn't care. I fit in. I looked like I belonged.

"And I'd like you all to do me a favor!" Roger shouted from his spot onstage. He grinned at me and winked devilishly. "I want you to yell as loud as you can for the kid that's doing a documentary on our tour. His name's Mark and I want you all to look for it when it comes out on...whatever the hell he said it was coming out on. He told me, but I wasn't paying attention. He's in the front row here, the blonde one that looks mortified at what I'm doing." He laughed and pointed to me. "Right there!" 

I grimaced as a thousand cheers went up, but I found my confused look turning into a wide smile. This was the same guy that I had lived with for five years. The same Roger that I helped through some tough times, and helped me through the same. The same Roger that I videotaped in his racy girlfriends purple vinyl dress as a dare. The same Roger that would tune his guitar at the crack of dawn and wake me up. The same Roger that I could always call whenever I needed him.

I sat back and enjoyed our new-kindled friendship...and the show of course.

***

I stood idly in the station, Roger beside me, both of us saying nothing. I had exchanged goodbyes with the rest of the band when I got off the bus, but Roger insisted on seeing me off.

"So, you got everything you wanted, right?" He asked out of the blue, looking up at me with searching dark eyes. I blinked.

"Oh yeah, I got some great shots of you guys, I finished all the interviews..."

"No...no..." he interrupted, smiling a little at me. "I mean...other than your film. What you were looking for, did you get that?"

I was silent for a moment. He knew. He knew I had been looking for assurance. Assurance that our friendship was still the same. Assurance that fame hadn't changed him. Assurance that he was still the same Roger Davis and that I was the same Mark Cohen. And I am. And he is. And we were.

"Yeah...yeah I did." I smile back at him. "So...you guys better go sell some more shows out. And cause riots and make people break things, and be your usual rowdy selves."

"We will, we will..." He paused a minute. "Did you ever get laid?" Laughter erupted from the both of us. 

"No, actually. Plenty of offers but...who knows where those groupies of yours have been..." I smiled, hoisting my bag onto my shoulder. "Besides, I've got someone waiting for me...sort of." 

"Gotta love the 'sort of' kinda relationships." Roger slapped me playfully on the back.

"They work just fine for me."

"Me too..."

An odd silence fell for a moment as they announced that my train had come in, and I was supposed to be getting the hell on, or I was out of luck.

"It's going to be weird without you there, filming, butting into our private lives..." Roger commented, a hint of sadness in his voice.

"You'll do fine without me...you'll make it on your own." The words that Roger had used when he left for LA fell out of my mouth and I smiled. He nodded, knowingly.

"Right. Go make us look good on screen now..." He said, pointing to where I was supposed to board.

"Go make me look like a good filmmaker. Uphold that rock star image for me." I added. 

"I'll call."

"You better!" I shouted, backing towards the platform. Roger waved. I waved. He was the same. I was the same. We were still us.

****


End file.
